Happy Ending
by shelizabeth
Summary: One Shot of 28 year old Emma telling her story of growing up in the foster system with the Once Upon A Time book instead of Henry


**A/N:**Well, this idea was swimming around in my head last night. I decided to sleep on it and let it fester, and what do you know? When I woke up this came out.

A one-shot of Emma telling the story of her life, had she grown up with the book instead of Henry. Ever since the pilot I had wondered how Emma would have known to return if she never had Henry. I know it's fate and prophesized and all that, but still, I was left with curiosity!

Reviews are VERY welcome, and you just make someone's day if you leave one(;

* * *

Growing up in the foster system, I remembered one thing. All it took was one idea, one belief, one shred of hope, and I got through even the darkest of nights. I whispered it to myself as I laid awake in my bed, thinking about how much one person could really matter in this world.

There are two days important in someone's life: the day they are born, and the day they find out why. I figure this is true, because it makes sense. I've only achieved the first one so far, and I think it was pretty important in my life. Not only was it the day I entered the world, about to begin all of life's twist and turns, but a lot of unusual circumstances led it to be a pretty defining day for me.

I was born premature, exactly how early, I'm not sure. I know that this happening decided my fate for the rest of my life. If I had waited just a little longer to join the world, I would have grown up with a mom, possibly a dad, but definitely a mom. We may not have had much, but we would have had each other. Nonetheless, the day I was born was the day I was born for a reason. It was the day the Evil Queen cast her curse across the kingdom.

Have I lost you? No? Okay, great. The Evil Queen cast a curse, a puff of purple smoke that swallowed the castle I was to live in whole. Yeah, a castle. My mom was a Princess and my dad was her, well, Prince Charming. Sometimes she even went by the name Snow White. They were rulers, and were going to take back the kingdom from the Evil Queen, we'll call her Regina. Regina hated my mom, and my dad most likely for associating with her at all. She blamed my mom for ruining her life. That's why the curse was cast. Regina wanted to take away my mom's happy ending. And that meant me.

The day I was born, with the curse looming over them and quickly approaching, my parents had to make a decision. They were told that I was the Savior. Yup, a freakin' Savior, before I had even taken a single breath. A man of the kingdom built a magically enchanted wardrobe to get me to safety, in a world far away from the one Regina was trying to destroy. They were told that I was the Savior, and that the wardrobe held only enough power to transport one. My parents didn't even consider anything else; they were going to be separated for 28 years while my mother raised me in a world completely foreign to her own. My mother was going to give up everything to give me a fighting chance.

She never got the opportunity though. Because I was born at home, as the wardrobe was being finished and the curse moved towards the castle. My mom didn't get to come through with me.

_We have to give her her best chance._

That was what my mom said when she handed me to my dad to put through the wardrobe alone.

If I had waited, maybe only mere hours, before seeing what was going on out there my life would have been completely different. But what's meant to be will always find its way.

I know about when I was born. Now I'd like to figure out why.

* * *

I was five years old the day I got the package in the mail. I was living in a group home, waiting for my next placement.

It was one of the more unbearable group homes. It was overcrowded, overheated, and the people were mean. I preferred the homes when they just ignored your existence and you could pretend to disappear inside your own mind. I had wild fantasies of running away, of going to a bus stop to get whatever bus comes next, and a young, pretty lady would come sit and talk to me.

"Should you be out here by yourself, little girl?" She'd ask sweetly.

"Nobody cares," I'd answer. "I don't have any family."

This would break her heart, and she'd insist I come home with her. _I don't have any family either! _She'd say. We'd promise to be each other's family forever. Then, much later, as she's tucking me into bed she'd say _I had a daughter, but she was taken away from me against my will. I was always looking for her. Her name was Emma. _We'd find out she's my long lost Mom. Sometimes in my fantasies there would be a husband too, and a perfect two-story suburban home.

I saw my possible parents everywhere. From couples walking on the street, to the characters on tv. They were my surrogate friends, these people who didn't know me and didn't care to know me. I had no real friends, no long lost family members even, like some of the other kids that got a card on Christmas or their birthday, mostly out of guilt. I had nothing but the stories I made up in my head.

The group home I was in when I was five called me down to the office to see the main lady. I never knew her name. Only that she had bright orange hair that looked stringy like carrot sticks. She always looked angry too.

"Emma Swan?" she asked me. "This package came for you. It was from an anonymous sender."

I didn't know what anonymous meant at the time, but I learned quickly it meant that they didn't know who sent it. I still had no family or friends.

It took me over a week to open the package, because I refused to do it before I figured out who anonymous was, or more accurately, what it meant. It was uncharastically me, because I was always so eager to get new things; I was young enough to still feel excited by it. I was young enough to still get excited by anything.

Finally, using a pen from the little girl that slept in the bed next to me, I ripped open the box.

"It's a book!" The little girl who's pen I borrowed told me. I wanted to tell her to shut up, that I could see for myself, and thanks for the pen but bug off. But my voice was small then, and I didn't speak much at all.

I stared at the book in wonder though. It was huge, like nothing I'd ever seen before. I had just started to read a little on my own, but I still couldn't figure out the first two words. I could read A Time though. A time for what? I wondered.

I didn't care. It was my first present. I flipped through the pages, staring at the pictures in wonder. I loved it. It was the best present ever.

* * *

I learned to read by reading fairy tales. As I made my way through the big brown book, I felt more and more connected to it. The more I read, the less willing I was to talk about it or let anyone else see.

It was mine. They were my stories. No one else would understand.

It was from my friend August W. Booth. He signed his name at the bottom of the inside cover, and after he wrote _but you can call me Pinocchio. _

I didn't understand. I didn't understand until I got to the end.

* * *

The first time I thought about killing myself was when I was ten. I didn't actually think I would do it, I didn't think I even wanted to. I just thought about it.

I had told my foster sister about my book. We had been living together for almost four months, and I read the stories almost every night. She would never leave me alone about it. She was four years older than me, and she was pretty. She was the pretty that was natural; the one who's pictures come out good even when they have no idea a camera is going off. She was popular in school, I know because she told me. And she had a prepaid phone that was always going off, so I believed her. She never brought her friends back to our house though.

She was only nice to me at night. When I would lay in bed, squinting my eyes trying to read in the dark even though I knew the stories by heart, she would let me use the light from her prepaid phone. I thanked her, and she told me all she wanted to know was why I cared so much about that stupid book.

She seemed like she really cared, and she was nice enough to let me use the light on her phone, and so I told her. I told her about the curse and my parents and how I was the Savior and was going to save them because they were waiting for me. When I finished explaining, I was out of breath, so satisfied with my details in explaining it. I was sure it made perfect sense and I realized I was excited for her reaction. I was excited to share the excitement for the first time.

Her reaction was laughter. Real, genuine laughter from the bottom of her belly. She couldn't stop laughing, not until our doors got banged on and we got yelled at to shut up. I tried so hard not to cry, _I tried so damn hard. _But I had never been so heartbroken. I showed her the picture at the end of the book, the proof I've held since I was five. She was still laughing, clutching her stomach, tears springing from her eyes.

_You really believe this, don't you?_ She said suddenly, not laughing anymore.

I was crying. I was crying so damn hard.

_I believe it because it's true! You're just jealous that my parents really did want me!_

I had never spoken up like that before, never ever with anyone before.

_You're a psycho kid that can't deal with the fact that she was thrown on the side of the road like leftover dinner! Everyone knows that's what happened! You're like the poster child for every foster kid: Hey it could have been worse! They think to themselves when they cry themselves to sleep. I could have been as unwanted as Emma Swan! Everyone knows who you are, because everyone is so glad they aren't you. Nobody wanted you, Emma. Haven't you figured that out yet? You're never going to have anybody, except yourself! You need to grow up, or you're never going to survive this stupid fucking system!_

I was biting my lip so hard I could feel it cracking, blood rushing to the surface. I wanted to punch her, I wanted to scream, I wanted to run home and find my parents. I was a coward though; too much of a coward to run away. I ran out of the room and slammed into the bathroom, my fists shaking with swallowed rage. I had to hit; to punch; to hurt. I was hurt, and so I needed to hurt someone.

But I had no one.

The words felt like they were swimming in circles in my head.

No one. No one. No one.

Except yourself.

I couldn't hurt anyone. Except myself.

I thought about how I could do it without getting caught. I couldn't punch a wall, that would be obvious. My rage seemed to be less impulsive now, so I don't think I would have the adrenaline anyway. I opened the mirror on the wall, looking for something to cause damage. It was practically empty, the shelves reminded me of myself.

There was a tiny tub of vaseline, a bottle of prescription pills, and shaving cream and a man's razor. My foster dad's, obviously. As quickly as the thought crossed my mind, I lifted my hand to pick up the razor. I moved slowly, as if the razor was going to sprout to life and tell me to put it down because I was being a fucking idiot. It didn't though, it didn't do anything but rest in my hand as an idle invitation.

My first try I just moved the razor gently over the inside of my arm, as if I was shaving my leg. It tickled more than anything. I tried again, except this time, I angled the blade a little more so the razor was deeper in my arm. I pulled again. This time it was a sharp sting, exactly like cutting while you're shaving. It was a tiny line, but it started bleeding a pretty good amount. I ran my arm under the cold water of the sink feeling satisfied. I felt like I did something about my pain. Like I was finally handling it. I had no control in my life, except for right here in this bathroom. Nobody could hurt my body except for me.

That's what I reasoned with myself. If I hurt myself before anyone else got the chance to, it means I was immune. It meant I won.

Eventually, after moving homes, I found a box cutter. It was dull and forgotten about, and I barely ever drew blood with it. I almost preferred that, though. It gave me a sense of control without the mess.

I stole it, my first real experience with theft.

* * *

When I was thirteen, I got asked to my middle school dance. Tickets were five dollars,

which I didn't have. He offered to pay for me if I went with him, and I really wanted to go, so I said yes.

I didn't have a dress to wear, but my friend at the time Stephanie invited me over to her house to get ready. I showed up in a jean skirt and a purple blouse, and Steph asked me if I brought a dress to change into. Her and her parents knew I was in the foster system, so I just explained these were the nicest clothes I owned.

This apparently broke her poor mother's heart, and she immediately went to work in Stephanie's closet finding something that would suit me. I declined at first, but eventually accepting after relentless insisting and assurance from Stephanie that she didn't care, and did I want to sleep over tonight after the dance?

I wore a white dress, a little more casual than every other preteen girl's attire, but much nicer looking than the outfit I came in. Stephanie had a date too, and they picked us up together in a limo that Stephanie's date's mom and my date's mom had rented for us.

My date was a sweet boy. He was blonde, but his eyes were dark brown like he had secrets to tell. His mom and dad were both accountants, and he complained about his annoying little sister and brother on the way to the school. Stephanie joined in, saying how her older sister gets to do _everything. _Stephanie's date laughed and said he was glad he was an only child. I kept quiet. I never knew what to say about siblings. I'm an only child, yes, but I am surrounded by siblings that I have no connection, no bond, no feeling of care for.

The dance wasn't as magical as I expected it to be, but I was glad I was spending the night at Stephanie's instead of going home, so I did get something out of going. I slow danced with my date, and we both moved awkward. His hands were sweaty and his voice was scratchy with the promise of a boy starting to turn into a man.

At the end of the last slow song, my date asked if he could kiss me. I had never been kissed before, but Stephanie had. I was pretty sure everyone had. I didn't want to be the only one who hadn't, and so I said yes. He kissed me softly, as if he was scared. I had no idea what I was doing at all. I tried puckering my lips in the middle of the kiss. He didn't pull away for a good minute, but our mouths never opened. We just stood there, our lips touching. I was worried that I didn't feel sparks or magic when our lips touched. Did that mean I was gay or something?

After he pulled away, I didn't know what to do, so I turned around and walked outside of the gymnasium doors into the school hallways where the snack stands were. The hallways felt eery without the hustle of kids sneakers and teachers papers.

_Hey, _he said, sitting next to me. _I saw what happened._

_What do you mean?_

_The kiss,_ he explained. _You just walked away._

_Oh yeah, _I had said, feeling embarrassed that someone had saw. _It was nothing._

_It didn't look like you enjoyed it._

_Shouldn't you be with Stephanie? _I had asked, when I looked up at him. Why was her date talking to me?

_I guess. We don't really have a lot in common._

_Oh._

_My name is Neal, _he said said. _It's nice to meet you, Emma. _And he held out his hand and smiled.

_How do you know my name?_

_Stephanie called you it earlier, _he smiled. I felt stupid then, even though I couldn't remember Stephanie once calling me by name in front of Neal.

* * *

Stephanie stopped talking to me a few months later when we went to high school. I was living in a group home again, waiting for another placement because my last family had just moved to Utah.

I began seeing Neal every day, until I didn't. Neal disappeared halfway through my first year of high school. I cried, and I cried some more. I cried into my blanket, feeling like a loser. I read the stories in my book over and over, until my vision blurred from staring at the pages.

The stories were the only constant I had in my life. I knew my parents, and I knew I had to find them.

* * *

Neal returned the day before I turned 17.

_Where were you?! Where did you come from?_

_It was nothing, _he explained. _I had to go away for a little while. But I'm back now. For good this time._

_It's too late! _I cried, and cried. _You're too late._

But Neal didn't give up.

* * *

Neal and I went out to dinner when I graduated high school. We had been living in a tiny yellow bug car that we had stolen together, high-fiving as we drove away, feeling invincible, feeling in love.

Neal and I were going to try our new dine and dash routine, where I ate with a sweater up my shirt and pretended to be pregnant. We got by on stealing. The world wasn't cut out for people like us, but we survived in it still.

I started to forget about my stories, about my parents. Neal began to be enough for me. I saw a life, a chance, a future with him.

Until I didn't.

* * *

Neal disappeared again, just like when I was fourteen. I cried, and I cried some more. How could I have been so _stupid? _

This time, though, I cried in a jail cell. Neal disappeared after he set up to take the fall for stealing some watches. The watches that were going to set us up to start a real life, not one on the run. I was more than willing to do it if it meant a life with Neal.

The stick formed two lines, a promise of my fuck-ups, my wrongdoings, my stupidity. How could I bring a child into this cruel world after the life I had endured?

How could I not, when it was the only family I'd ever have?

I gave birth chained to a bed in a hospital, and the doctor asked me if I wanted to change my mind. I thought about my two months left in my sentence, how I could have a little person waiting for me.

It would be hard, but we could do it together.

I looked at the little guy with tears pricking my eyes, and the warmness felt just like the blood from the bathroom eight years ago.

I shook my head, and they took the last little piece of Neal I had out of the room, a reminder I would never have to see again.

* * *

When I left jail, I left with two things: my baby blanket and my Once Upon A Time book. I thought about looking for my parents, but I couldn't. Not yet.

I decided to go to college. I moved to Massachusetts after getting my little yellow car from a tow yard. When I stepped in, I felt suffocated by the smell of the memories that Neal and I had created. There was a plastic grocery bag on the floor of the back seat, stuffed with all the spare clothes I had. I turned the ignition and I drove, rolling down the windows so I could breathe.

* * *

The day I turned 28, I blew out a candle on a tiny cupcake I had bought for myself at the bakery down the street from my apartment. The windows leaked the darkness into my apartment, and I sighed, wondering how I ended up where I was.

I knew I was alone. As a child, the only thing I ever knew was that I was alone, except for my stories. But even then, even as I entertained the thought that the stories were just stories, I always still felt like I was going to grow up and live a normal life. I was going to get married, at least. Live normally. Maybe even have kids when I could raise them in a loving home. If I was even capable of that. I didn't know if I was, but I never even got to figure it out. Every relationship I ever had was dysfunctional, harmful, toxic.

I was started out of my self pity when the phone rang. I stared at it for a few moments, letting it ring, letting myself imagine it was my mom or dad or long lost sibling calling to say Happy Birthday, and asking what I was doing this weekend.

"Hello?" I answered, trying my best to sound stoic.

"Emma?" The voice said and paused, waiting for my reaction. For a minute I filled in the silence myself. _Just calling to say Happy Birthday and I was thinking of you! Have a great day!_

"Yes?" I heard myself say into the phone.

"It's Alex. Can you work tonight? I know it's last minute."

_I was actually going out, my family is throwing a big surprise party for my birthday and I have to pretend like I don't know about it! I can't wait!_

"I can work," I answered.

"A man is offering to pay VERY big money for this case, so it is imperative we get what he needs."

"What is it?" I say, my curiosity was sparked.

"It's a PI case, but he specifically requested you by name. Will you take it? There will be benefits for you."

I didn't care about the benefits, only the distraction.

"Sure."

"It's a big case. It's in a town called Storybrooke, Maine. The man asking for you is named Mr. Gold. He wants you there as soon as possible. I'll send you the rest of the information in an email."

"I'll leave tonight," I told her, already mentally preparing a trip. It was a welcome distraction from Boston. Maybe a change could be good.

God knows there isn't anything for me here.

* * *

The town of Storybrooke isn't on any maps, in case you were wondering. That should have been my first clue.

But I was 28, and I had promised myself fairy tales didn't exist.

Until they did.

* * *

"Mr. Gold?" I asked, knocking on the door to the Pawn Shop that was the address Alex sent me. It was late at night, and there was a little boy there. I scrunched my eyebrows, wondering what kind of scene I had walked into.

"Ah, Emma Swan! I am so _grateful _you decided to help me out."

The little boy turned around then, and my heart clunked to the bottom of my stomach. I could feel it ramming against the lining of my chest, and my head felt like someone just put a turkey dropper in my ear and sucked all the air out of it. _He looked so much like Neal. But no, it couldn't be. I'm seeing Neal in places he isn't. But he looks _sofucking much _like Neal. _

"I need your help too!" The little boy said, studying my face. "My name is Henry, and I need to find my real mom."

_My real mom._

"You- you were adopted?"

"Yes! And I need to find my real mom."

It felt like my ears were ringing as I stared at the little boy. I wanted to run, I wanted to drive home, to wake up from whatever twisted dream I was having.

"I think I can help," I said slowly, backing out of the pawn shop with calculated footsteps. I looked at the brown book on my passenger seat and opened it again quickly.

_A jail worse than mine; a prison of time. Time will stop and you will all forget who you are._

When I walked back into the pawn shop to Henry's expectant eyes, with the book under my arm, I asked Henry a question.

"Does that big clock ever move?" I asked, staring at the frozen hands.

"Not since I was born," Henry had answered.

I nodded then, feeling like I was going to fall over. Then I handed Henry the brown book I had held on to tighter than anything else since the moment I got it 23 years ago.

_I think you could use this, _I told him, handing it over. _Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing._


End file.
